Real Men Don't Break Hearts (5 page)

“I’m not just rearranging the stock; I’m getting a whole lot of fresh new things.”

“But where will you put it all, lovey? The shop isn’t that big.”

“I’m culling most of the existing stock. I—”

“Culling?” Nana’s tone sharpened. “What do you mean, culling?”

“It means I won’t be selling it anymore.”

“But—but I don’t understand.” Nana gripped the table edge. “Which things won’t you be selling anymore?”

“Well, there are the leaded glass lamps…”

Nana groaned. “George’s lampshades. Oh, he’ll be so disappointed.”

“The crocheted baby booties…”

Nana clutched at her bosom. “No, not the booties!”

“And the Angora sweaters.”

Nana gasped. “Oh my lord! Carol is a dear, dear friend of mine. I’ve been selling her beautiful sweaters for years, long before you ever came to the shop. How can you just dump her like that?”

“Please don’t be so upset. It was purely a business decision. Her sweaters aren’t very popular these days.”

“They’re wonderful, every one of them uniquely designed and hand knitted. You won’t find her level of craftsmanship anywhere else.”

And for good reason
, Ally silently retorted. She stretched her hand across the table toward her grandmother. “I’m really sorry, Nana, but I don’t have much choice.”

Nana pulled away from Ally’s reach. “I’m shocked you’re doing this to my store.”

In the past Ally would have tried to placate her grandmother, but not this time. She kept her voice low but firm. “It’s not your shop anymore—you passed the responsibility on to me. I make the decisions now, and I’ve decided this is best. You need to let go and allow me to succeed or fail on my own.”

Her grandmother jerked her head away, her profile set and angry. Ally’s heart sank, but she swallowed the words of contrition that instantly came to her lips. This time she couldn’t afford to back down.

After a few moments, Nana swiveled round, her expression still stiff. “I suppose you’re right. It’s not my shop anymore. I should just butt out.”

“Oh, Nana. I don’t want you to butt out; I still value your input. I just want you to respect my decisions.”

Her grandmother pinched her lips together. “Okay, if that’s what you want, but if you value my input then I think you’re making a huge mistake dropping Carol’s sweaters.”

Not exactly wholehearted support, but it was enough. Ally breathed a sigh. “Advice noted.”

They all resumed their meals, a little subdued, but Ally was too wound up to eat. She’d spoken up for herself, and it felt good. She looked at her grandmother, an unfamiliar boldness firing through her veins. “Hey, Nana, I’ve been thinking about that guy you want to fix me up with, and—and you know what? I think I might give it a go. What do you say?”

Jess choked. Brian stopped chewing. Slowly Nana lifted her head. “Are you just trying to humor me?”

Ally gave her a bright smile. “I’m serious. Jess here’s been telling me I should go out and have some fun, so why not? Do you think your friend’s grandson is a fun guy?”

Jess gave her an I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that stare. Ally knew what her sister was thinking. A blind date set up by Nana? She must be out of her mind.

“Paul is a very nice boy,” Nana declared. “Always comes to visit his grandma with a box of chocolates or a book. Nice looking, too. None of those tattoos and earrings and messy hair some men have these days.”

Oh good, a nice-looking boy by Nana standards. Ally swallowed. But she wouldn’t back out now. She was ready—no, overdue—for a change.

Jess leaned toward her and muttered in Ally’s ear, “You’re nuts. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Ally just shrugged. “Who knows. This Paul guy might be the man of my dreams.”

Chapter Five

A soft violet twilight was falling through the trees when Nate pulled his car up to the curb. He cut the engine and inspected his house. At least he was starting to think of it as his house now and not Robbie’s.

As he stepped out, a bunch of young teenagers cruised by on their skateboards, eyeing his silver Maserati. They wore regulation ripped jeans and baseball caps, their moods sullen. The last boy idled past on his skateboard, flipping Nate the bird as he insolently drifted round the corner.

Nate shook his head. Kids. He’d been just the same at that age. Worse.

His dress shoes skidded slightly on the damp grass as he made his way to the house. After his farewell party he hadn’t bothered to change out of his business attire. He’d left the steel-and-glass tower in the middle of Sydney and come directly down here, keen to draw a line between his old life and the first chapter of his new one. He was down for only a few days to prepare the house in readiness for his final move. Then it was back to Sydney to pack up his apartment before he returned here for good.

A dry voice crackled out through a frangipani tree as he walked past. “Back again, are you?”

Nate peered through the branches and spied a wrinkled, disapproving face surrounded by a flannel turban. “Evening, Mrs. Bennett.” Cheeks like slabs of mottled putty weighed down the elderly woman’s head. A floral housecoat billowed over massive shoulders. The wooden fence hid the fluffy slippers Nate was all too familiar with. When he’d come to live here with Robbie, Mrs. Bennett had already been the horrible old monster next door, and the passing years had just left her more scaly and grumpy.

“You’ll be seeing a lot more of me,” Nate said. “I’m moving back permanently.”

“Moving back? You? That’ll be the day.” She snorted derisively and rested a ham-sized forearm on the fence, causing the wooden planks to creak. “You’d better not be causing trouble like you used to.”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “That was a long time ago.”

The old lady harrumphed. “I remember it like yesterday. You were a right hooligan, and your brother didn’t lift a finger to stop you. Shameful it was, the way he egged you on.”

Shut up about Robbie, you old dragon
. Nate bit off the retort just in time. He wanted to get along with his neighbors, even vinegary Mrs. Bennett. And she had a point, he had to concede. He’d stolen her prize pumpkins, played pranks on her, teased her dog, and generally shown no respect toward her. And she was right about Robbie, too. Not once had his brother ever tried to discipline him. In fact, he’d taken vicarious pleasure in Nate’s misdeeds, had once even shut the door on Mrs. Bennett when she’d come to complain. That had been a crappy thing to do to an old lady, even if she was a sourpuss. Nate frowned. That wasn’t how he wanted to remember his brother.

“I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

A furious yapping broke out on the other side of the fence. Mrs. Bennett bent down and reappeared with a mangy little mutt clutched to her vast bosom. The dog bared his teeth at Nate, a low growl vibrating his fur. The old lady had always kept a succession of ugly, snarling lapdogs, and this one seemed no exception.

“You’d better not, or I’ll set Porkchop on you,” Mrs. Bennett warned. “If there’s any loud parties or street racing like there used to be, I’ll call the police. This is a nice, quiet neighborhood now, and I want it to stay that way.” She lumbered off, the garish pink flowers of her housecoat glowing in the dusk.

So much for neighborliness
, Nate thought as he let himself into the house and began turning on the lights. There’d definitely be no street racing, and no parties like Robbie used to throw. At the time, he’d thought his brother so cool for the wild ragers he’d indulged in. Thumping music, flowing alcohol, raucous friends, fast women. But now, when he looked back, it seemed more than a little sad the way his brother had greedily chased after stimulation yet never seemed to find any real satisfaction. As Robbie had gotten older he’d sought out wilder, more dangerous thrills, until he’d crashed his car at a hundred-and-fifty kilometers per hour and paid the ultimate price.

Nate left the house to retrieve his luggage and a bag of groceries from his car. As he approached the Maserati, he noticed the interior light was on. He frowned at his forgetfulness before realizing the passenger door was slightly ajar. He definitely hadn’t done that. He broke into a run. Reaching the car, he yanked the half-open door wider and peered inside.

“Shit!”

The groceries were lying scattered all over the passenger seat, tins and bottles scratched and leaking onto the ochre leather seat. But that wasn’t why he had sworn. His briefcase was gone. He opened the trunk and checked that his weekend bag was still there. Fuming, he scanned the street both ways, hoping to spot some suspicious behavior. Nothing. No passing traffic. No suspects loitering in the shadows. In the houses across the street, televisions glowed behind drawn curtains. Faint sounds of children playing drifted on the cooling air. Just a typical evening in suburbia. He swore again. The mundane quietness of the streetscape seemed to mock him.

Why had he forgotten to lock the car? Because he thought he was safe here in his old neighborhood.

He had to get his briefcase back. While it contained a few items of value, the thing that meant the most to him—his framed photo of Robbie—was in it. It had sat in his office for years, and he wanted—no, needed—it here in Burronga. To remind him of why he was here.

And now it was gone.

He pulled out his mobile phone and put a call in to the local police station. The operator on the other end didn’t seem too excited by his news. Friday night was always a busy one for the police, he was told. They would get to him when they could.

Frustrated, he carted the rest of his belongings into the house and prepared himself for a long wait. Sometime later a police car finally appeared. Two grizzled and jaded-looking policemen got out, paunches straining against their blue shirts. The older of the two, a bear of a man with a graying buzz cut, flipped open his notebook and eyed Nate.

“What make is that?” He nodded toward Nate’s car. “A Porsche or something?”

“A Maserati. A Gran Turismo.”

The policeman sniffed and scratched his neck with his pen. “All right for some.” He asked for Nate’s driver’s license and jotted down the details. “Hey, I know you.” He squinted closer at Nate. “You used to live around here. In this house, if I remember correctly.”

“That’s my new address,” Nate said. “I’m moving back.”

“Uh-huh.” The cop screwed up his eyes. “Yeah…I used to get calls about you all the time.” He turned to his partner. “Hey, Wozza, you remember the complaints we used to get about Nate Hardy?”

“Heh, do I ever. Got caught for shoplifting, didn’t you?”

Nate felt the back of his neck grow hot. It seemed like another lifetime when he’d stolen three video games from an electronics store. When his stepfather had discovered those games, he’d reacted in typical fashion: pulled off his belt and thrashed Nate black and blue, until Nate was nauseous and thought he’d received enough punishment, but still his stepfather continued, laying into him with maniacal glee. Until something in Nate had snapped, and he’d grabbed the belt and lashed it across the brute’s face before dashing out of the house and running all fifteen kilometers to Robbie’s place.

“The judge sentenced me to six months’ community service,” he said.

The two cops exchanged looks. “Huh. Community service.” The second cop spat in the dirt.

He should have gotten more, considering his long history of misbehavior, but Robbie had turned up at court and spoken for him. When he wanted to, Robbie could be quite persuasive, and he’d drawn the magistrate’s sympathy with his detailing of Nate’s dismal home life.

The first cop folded his arms across the barrel of his chest. “So you say your briefcase has been stolen. Any valuables in it?”

“Yes. About five hundred dollars in cash, a Rolex watch, a Mont Blanc pen, as well as some confidential business papers.”

“A Rolex and a Mont Blanc pen. Fancy shmancy.”

“Also a picture.”

“What, like a Picasso?”

Nate gritted his teeth. “A photo of my dead brother.” These two were enjoying taking the piss out of him, and he doubted they’d do anything about finding his stolen property. “Look, when I arrived I saw a bunch of teenagers loafing about on their skateboards. They looked like locals. Maybe one of them decided to come back to see what he could pinch.”

“So you got an eye for troublemakers, eh?” The cop pretended to scribble something into his notebook. “Well, we’ll certainly look into that, won’t we, Wozza?”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure we’ve got nothing better to do than chase up Rolex watches and Mont Blanc pens stolen from a Maserati.”

“We’ll let you know if anything turns up. In the meantime I’m sure you have insurance. Have a good night, sir.”

Nate scowled after the two cops as they ambled back to their vehicle. “Now he knows what it’s like to be on the other side,” he heard one of them mutter.

Crud. Why had he wasted his time calling the police? History was coming back to bite him one more time. He got into his car and shoved his fingers through his hair, too wound up to stay at home. Too irritated by all the people lining up against him. First that cocky teenager giving him the finger, then Mrs. Bennett, then the punk who’d broken into his car, and finally the cops who were only too happy to see him get a taste of his own medicine.

He gunned the engine and took off with a roar, tires squealing. That’d get Mrs. Bennett grumbling. But he didn’t care. He’d had enough of being nice.

The Duck Inn was about ten kilometers out of Burronga on the Old Hume Highway. The historic pub had been done up to the rafters and attracted a well-heeled crowd. Not exactly the kind of place to suit Nate’s belligerent mood, but he had enough sense to avoid the rowdier pubs. In his current frame of mind he knew he’d just attract trouble.

He shouldered his way through the packed main bar and bought himself a beer. A couple of glammed-up women in short skirts and high heels gave him encouraging glances as he cast around for an empty seat. From the way they were eyeing him, he was sure he’d have no problem approaching them for a chat. He knew the routine. Problem was, he was tired of the same old act.

Cradling his beer, he headed for a corner of the bar counter. The music blaring from the sound system was a song he disliked, and the conversation around him was too raucous. A few people were dancing in the center of the room. He took a mouthful of beer, already regretting stopping here. He’d finish his drink and then head back home. At least there he wouldn’t have to put up with other people’s bad musical taste.

The music swapped over to a slow song, and the dancing changed. Great. Just what he needed, a crooning number and amorous couples feeling each other up. He downed another gulp of beer and almost choked as he spotted Ally dancing with some strange guy. They were on the edge of the crowd, and to Nate everything about them shouted “first date.” He could tell just by the way they were holding each other: Ally stiff, her fingers tentative on the man’s shoulders, while the guy had his arm loose around her waist, a good few inches of space separating their bodies. Through the haze he didn’t have a good view of Ally’s expression, but the guy seemed eager. Nate narrowed his gaze on Ally. He could see why.

Ally looked incredible. She’d done something to her hair so it was all shiny and loose as it tumbled around her shoulders. Her soft, pale blue dress clung to her curves and floated over her thighs at least two inches above her knees, and the stilettos on her feet did amazing things to her legs. Damn, she had great legs. Lithe, toned, touchable. Why had he never noticed them before? In fact, why had he never noticed how outright sexy she was? The question rocked through his brain, altering all his thought patterns.

Ally spun around in her partner’s arms, and now her rear was toward Nate. Her swaying butt had him mesmerized. His fingers itched to touch the silky material, to glide over her soft skin and caress the little hollow at the back of her knees. Who would have thought Ally Griffin would get his motor racing this hot? He’d never thought of her like this, never visually undressed her so blatantly. At first he’d just known her as Seth’s girlfriend who didn’t approve of him, and then he’d thought of her as Seth’s ex-fiancée who hated his guts. He’d never thought of her as a woman who might attract him. She wasn’t his type. Too rigid, too determined to keep Seth away from his bad influence. The kind of woman who would smother a man. Anathema to Nate.

But now? Now he couldn’t just dismiss her as a stuffy prude, not when his body was telling him the opposite. The spark had been struck in his mind, and it couldn’t be unstruck, no matter how he tried. The more he gazed at Ally, the more intrigued he became. He used to think he had her all sussed out, but he was wrong. He recalled the bars of soap she’d flung at him and, six years ago, the two stinging slaps she’d delivered across his face. Ally might seem like a pussycat, but back her into a corner and she could be quite the spitfire. She had spirit, he had to admit, and tonight she looked like dynamite.

He shifted his attention to Ally’s date. Roughly the same age as him, medium build, short brown hair, clean-cut looks, neat khaki trousers, nice shirt but nothing fancy. A dime a dozen. Mr. Average. Why was she out with him? What could she possibly see in a guy like that? Nate frowned into his beer. Crap, he couldn’t mistake the first stirrings of envy. Over Ally. Not good.

Mercifully the song ended, and the crowd milled about, obscuring his view of Ally. He lost sight of her, but then a second later she was right in front of him, looking blankly startled, her mouth slightly agape. As they were just inches apart, there was no way she could avoid him.

“Hey there.” He lifted his glass in salute.

She pressed her lips shut. He noticed the cherry red lipstick she was wearing and the mascara around her baby blue eyes—eyes with a tight, wary line between them. “How long have you been here?” she asked abruptly.